


Five Times Sherlock and John Meet Cute and One Time They Do Not

by BlasphemousProphet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlasphemousProphet/pseuds/BlasphemousProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John, meeting in different places and different situations with the same instant eye fucking and true love at first sight, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock and John Meet Cute and One Time They Do Not

1\. Of Clothes and the Common Man  
Sherlock Holmes ran an extremely tight ship. At least this was what John was told. His clothes were deconstructed, perfectly tailored satires of traditional menswear over time. They were terrifyingly expensive and aggressively attractive; much like Sherlock Holmes himself, John thought, eyeing the owner and designer of Holmes.  
“John,” said John, extending a hand.  
“Watson.”  
“How did you know my last name?”  
“You’re wearing a name tag.”  
“Right.”  
Sherlock was definitely wearing one of his own designs, he had to be. John could hardly control himself from watching how the silk glided over Sherlock’s skin and caressed his body like-  
“I have ten minutes.”  
“Right, right. Shall we sit?”  
They sat down.  
“What was it, the money or the convenience?” Sherlock asked.  
“What?”  
“You’re clearly smart enough to know you’re above interviewing celebrities and reality TV stars for a living. You majored in journalism in Cambridge, you left it to go to the army and when you returned no one cared about journalism any more so you took this shit job.”  
John felt breathless by the mixture of compliments and insults Sherlock barraged him with. Was he really that transparent?  
“So the rumors are true, then,” said John, trying to regain some control over the dialogue.  
“Indeed. I am gay.”  
“I meant the ones about your observational skills.”  
Sherlock laughed and the way people glanced around the room at him made John feel as though Sherlock’s laughter was likely a rare thing caused and seen by few.  
“Mind if I record this?”  
“No need,” said Sherlock, motioning to the gaggle of employees who had surrounded them. “This entire conversation will be on YouTube by the end of the day. Or the hour, right, Molly?”  
Molly blushed uncontrollably.  
“Molly, can I have the room cleared?” asked Sherlock in a tone that indicated absolutely no other option.  
The room cleared instantly.  
“Shit,” mumbled John.  
“It’s alright,” said Sherlock. “If you’re worrying because ten minutes are up, that is just a lie I tell most journalists to force them to only ask me the most pertinent questions. I have time for whatever you need.”  
John’s face was on fire. “Good,” he said. “Lots of people have written about the impossible cost of your clothes and the reflection it casts on society. Is this an intentional choice on your part?”  
Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised at John’s intuitive suggestion that the price of his clothes was purposefully unattainable.  
“Yes,” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers together. “My clothes are for the .1% of people who comprehend the purpose they serve. Like you.”  
Sherlock reached behind him and handed John a package that felt deceptively light.  
“Put it on,” said Sherlock.  
“I couldn’t possibly…”  
“It’s a gift.”  
“I can’t afford-“  
“I want you to have it,” said Sherlock.  
His voice was so gentle that John’s face felt like it was crumpling. How could Sherlock possibly known how lonely and lost he felt in this new postwar world, that all he wanted was one nice thing, that all he knew was that being with Sherlock felt like finding a place again?  
“Thank you,” said John. “I-“  
“Would you like to order some dinner?” asked Sherlock. John was quietly shocked anew.  
“I mean, I can’t eat,” said Sherlock shyly. “I’m working today so…I know it’s strange but-”  
“You haven’t eaten this whole day?” said John, pulling out his phone. “You have to eat!”  
“Okay,” said Sherlock softly. “I’ll eat.”

2\. War Times  
“Watson, John,” snapped a bored voice. “Is there a John Watson present?”  
John was jolted out of a daydream where he was home, arguing with Harry, looking out a window, visiting his mother’s grave, holding someone’s hand…  
“You’ve been dismissed,” said the sharp voice, though the hand on John’s shoulder was surprisingly gentle. “Honorable discharge.”  
John looked up into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.  
“I’m going home?” he asked, ashamed of his tremulous tone but unable to control himself.  
“Let’s get out of here,” said Sherlock Holmes, supporting John as he dragged his damaged leg behind him, leading him out the door.

“It’s psychosomatic,” said Sherlock.  
“You’re still here?”  
“It’s my job,” said Sherlock stiffly. “I escort discharged soldiers home. Temporarily. A temporary job.”  
John was quiet.  
“It was a punishment,” Sherlock added.  
“Well, thank you,” said John.  
“Your limp…it’s psychosomatic,” mumbled Sherlock.  
“What?”  
“Nothing,” snapped Sherlock.  
“I’m interested. Tell me.”  
“Really?”  
“Really.”  
“Your limp is all in your head,” Sherlock announced. “A trauma invented by the war, a defense mechanism invented by your mind to protect yourself from more dangerous thoughts lurking inside of you-“  
“Excuse me?”  
“Look at yourself.”  
John was shocked to find that he was walking from the car to the plane quickly, keeping pace with Sherlock, forgetting his cane in the car.  
“Brilliant,” John said.  
“Not what people usually say,” said Sherlock in a quieter tone.  
“What do they usually say?”  
“Piss off.”  
Sherlock turned away from John so he wouldn’t see the smile that crept over his entire face.

It was hours later when the stewardess came round with food.  
“Chicken or vegetarian?”  
“Chicken for him, nothing for me,” said Sherlock.  
“You haven’t eaten all day! Two chickens,” John told the stewardess.  
Sherlock was quiet again.  
“What?” John demanded. “It makes me nervous when you’re quiet.”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“I’ve also been discharged,” Sherlock said. “Dishonorably. For an astonishing lack of respect and intolerable pertinence.”  
“Seriously? I never heard of anyone being discharged for being rude.”  
“I’m the first.”  
“Wow,” said John.  
“I was just trying to help,” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Hey,” said John gently, with a featherlight touch over Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s whole body reflexively stiffened as though John’s hand was a match.  
“Sorry,” said John.  
“I don’t mind,” said Sherlock.

3\. Patient 221, Room B  
“He’s claiming it’s not a lung deficiency,” said Molly, struggling to keep up with Dr Watson. “He says to look at the top quadrant of his x-ray.”  
“Who is this?”  
“Patient 221. A Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Is he a doctor?”  
“No,” said Molly. “He’s some sort of policeman or detective of some kind…”  
“He’s actually right,” said John, whirling away from Molly and running down the hall the opposite way.  
“Room B,” yelled Molly after him, picking up the scattered papers John had dropped.

“Mr. Holmes?”  
Sherlock struggled to lift himself from his prostrate position.  
“Dr. Watson.”  
“Call me John.”  
“John, then.”  
“Your hypothesis was completely correct,” said John. “Brilliant.”  
Sherlock was stunned into silence.  
“What do you think it is then?”  
Sherlock did not respond.  
“Mr. Holmes?”  
“He’s been in this hospital four months and nobody has asked him that question until now,” said a voice. “He is in shock.”  
“And you are?”  
“Mycroft Holmes. Doting brother,” he said, reaching out a hand.  
“Well, I have a few theories,” said Sherlock loudly before John could respond. “But I would put money on this one,” he said, waving John over to his bedside.  
“You boys play nice,” said Mycroft, leaving.

“This wheelchair is unnecessary.”  
“Must I remind you that you just had surgery?”  
“Two days ago!”  
“Are you going to stop eating again now that you’re off the IV? The nurses told me that was a problem.”  
“No new rules,” said Sherlock. “Look at me. I’m in a wheelchair. I just had surgery.”  
“Am I going to have to check up on you?” asked John. “Come to your house and force you to eat?”  
“I certainly hope so,” said Sherlock and Mycroft, waiting in a nearby car, was gratified to see the matching grins that slithered across Sherlock and John’s face.

5\. Smiling at the Wall

The door to 221B Baker Street was wide open when Sherlock rushed in. Mrs. Hudson was standing inside with her hands on her hips, talking to someone whose back was to Sherlock.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               “What’s going on?” 

“Sherlock, dear, ever since you shot that hole in the wall-“

“I was bored!”

“I’ve hired this man to repaint it. I think you two will get along.”

“I didn’t know boredom could be so dangerous,” said John Watson turning around.

In his workman’s shirt, covered with spots of paint, rumpled in all the right places, blonde hair sticking up where John had ran his hands through it, a pen poking out of a pocket, John struck Sherlock speechless.

“Well…” said Sherlock finally.

“John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet the famous detective.”

“You’ve heard, I mean, you read my blog?”

Mrs. Hudson closed the door to 221B softly behind her.

“When I got this job I thought I should see what I was in for.”

“Is it what you expected?”

“Not exactly,” said John. Sherlock tried to control himself from wincing.

“I had no idea you would need so much taking care of. Holes in the walls, empty fridge-“

“You looked in the fridge?”

“Mrs. Hudson brought you some milk while I was here.”

“Oh.”

“She says you don’t eat when you’re on a case.”

“True.”

“Are you on a case?”

“Just ended, actually.”

John put his paintbrush down and looked directly at Sherlock.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to suggest lunch.”

“You…want lunch?”

“For a detective, you do seem to have missed a lot.”

“For a painter you do seem to have a lot of questions.”

John was silent.

“Oh, you’re not a painter. You’re better than that.”

“Nope. I like painting. I could use the money, I love the colors and it lets me think. You want to help me?”

“Paint the wall?”

“You’ll like it. It’s healthy.”

John unconsciously licked his lips as Sherlock leaned down to dip his paintbrush into the bucket of paint.

“You’ve got something on your cheek,” he told John awkwardly.

“Do I?”

Sherlock reached out and touched John’s cheek and the two of them stood there trembling, frozen in time, unwilling to move and let the moment pass.

6\. Drugs Bust  
“Officer Lestrade has sent me on a drugs search of your house. He told me to tell you he was this close to sending Anderson,” said John. Sherlock’s pout was a beautiful thing to behold.  
“Is this about the suitcase?” he said.  
“He told me to shrug.”  
“You won’t find anything,” said Sherlock.  
“He says he knows.”  
“Power plays,” mumbled Sherlock, causing John to laugh.

“My God, was that a head in your refrigerator?”  
“An experiment.”  
“Of an actual human being.”  
“Measuring the salivary glands dryness levels immediately following death.”  
“You have it next to a jar of jam!”  
“You can move it if you like.”

“So do you actually…”  
“7% solution of cocaine. Only when I’m bored.”  
“Are you bored?”  
“Not right now,” said Sherlock, looking directly at John.  
“And heroin?” asked John.  
Sherlock pulled down his sleeves.  
“I’m sorry, that was none of my business.”  
“Well, you are on a drugs bust,” Sherlock pointed out.  
“True.”

“Am I going to need to shoot up to get you to come back?”  
“You could always just ask me to dinner, no need for drastic measures.”  
“Would you-are you-“  
“I would love to.”


End file.
